3

Avery’s POV

Gym class has always been my safe zone. Neutral ground. No ice, no sticks, no Ethan Cole parading his golden-boy smile. Just me, a pair of sneakers, and enough determination to pass without embarrassing myself.

But today, Coach Daniels has other plans.

“Hockey drills,” he announces, tossing a bag of pucks onto the floor like we’re suddenly at tryouts. “Teamwork. Coordination. Endurance.”

Groans echo across the gym, but my stomach drops. Hockey drills. Of all things.

I keep my face blank, my expression practiced. No one here knows. No one except Lila, and she’s sworn to keep my secret buried. I’ve spent months avoiding anything that could give me away anything that could link me back to the girl who used to live and breathe the ice.

The girl who got humiliated on it.

The class splits into groups, fumbling with sticks, laughing at their own awkwardness. For most of them, this is a game, a novelty. For me, it’s muscle memory. Every grip, every step, every flick of the wrist it all comes back like my body’s been waiting.

I try to hold back. Really, I do. But when a puck skitters loose in my direction, instinct takes over. My stick moves before I can stop it, the clean, precise snap of a pass ricocheting across the floor.

Too clean.

The room stills. A couple of kids gape. Someone whistles low.

“Damn, Hart,” one of the guys says. “Where’d you learn that?”

I force a shrug, my face burning. “Lucky shot.”

But it happens again. And again. Each time, I try to restrain myself, but my body rebels. Years of practice won’t die quietly. My passes are sharper, my control smoother, my shots faster than anyone else’s. By the time the drill ends, there’s no denying it.

I’ve slipped.

Coach Daniels’ sharp eyes find me across the gym. For a second, he just studies me, unreadable. Then he nods once, the kind of nod that says: I know exactly what you’re hiding.

My stomach knots.

It was already the end of class. The locker room reeks of sweat and deodorant spray. I slam my locker shut, desperate to disappear before anyone asks questions.

But he’s waiting.

Leaning against the wall like he’s got nowhere better to be, arms folded across his chest, scar catching the light. Jaxon Reid.

Of course.

“You play,” he says flatly.

It’s not a question.

I yank my bag over my shoulder. “Nope.”

“You play,” he repeats, voice low, steady. “And you’re good.”

I spin on him, heat rising to my face. “I said no. Whatever you think you saw ”

He pushes off the wall, closing the distance with slow, deliberate steps. He doesn’t loom, not exactly, but his presence is big enough to swallow the space between us.

“I don’t think so.” His eyes flick to my bag. “I know. Unless you carry around scholarship flyers for fun?”

My breath stalls. My hand flies to my bag instinctively, clutching the zipper shut like it can erase the truth.

“How ”

His smirk curves. “You should really fold your papers better. Sloppy.”

Anger flares, hot and sharp. “You went through my stuff?”

“Relax. You dropped one earlier. I picked it up.” He shrugs, unapologetic. “So which is it? Playing again or running forever?”

The words dig under my skin, irritating, because they’re too close to the thoughts I’ve been drowning in for months.

“It’s none of your business,” I snap.

“Maybe.” He tilts his head, studying me like he’s already calculated the answer. “But here’s the thing I’ve got a deal for you.”

I laugh, harsh and humorless. “Oh, this should be good.”

“Fake date me,” he says, like he’s asking me to pass the salt.

I blink. “Excuse me?”

“Rumors follow me like flies. Girls whisper, guys stare, teachers wait for me to snap. People love a villain story.” His gaze sharpens. “But if I’m with you, little Miss Smart Girl, scholarship material, suddenly I’m not just trouble. I’m redeemable.”

My jaw drops. “You’re insane.”

“And in exchange,” he continues smoothly, ignoring me, “I help you win that scholarship. You get back on the ice, I train you, push you, whatever it takes. We both get what we need.”

I bark out a laugh. “You really think I’d fake-date you?”

His smirk deepens. “You already stare at me enough. Might as well make it official.”

My face burns. “I do not ”

“Sure,” he drawls, amused. “Keep telling yourself that.”

I shoulder past him, fury sparking in my chest. “You’re out of your mind.”

“Maybe.” His voice follows me, calm, deliberate. “But think about it. You want out of this town, don’t you? You want that scholarship. You can’t get it hiding in the bleachers.”

I stop short, teeth sinking into my lip. He’s right. That’s what infuriates me most. He’s stripped me bare with one conversation.

But I can’t. Not with him. Not with the boy everyone whispers about like he’s a warning sign in human form.

“I don’t need you,” I hiss, spinning on him. “I don’t need anyone.”

For the first time, his smirk falters. His eyes narrow, studying me like he’s deciding whether to push harder or let me run. Then, slowly, the smile returns wolfish.

“Sure, Hart. Keep telling yourself that.”

I storm toward the doors, my pulse hammering. My brain screams at me to shut it out, to bury the thought before it takes root. Fake-date Jaxon Reid? Let him train me? Absolutely not.

And yet 

Scholarship. Ice. Freedom.

The words gnaw at me, refusing to quiet down.

My feet falter, but I force them forward. No. I’m not doing this. I’m not falling into another boy’s orbit just to crash and burn.

I’m halfway down the hall when something clatters against the floor in front of me. A puck.

It spins lazily, wobbling until it rests at my toes.

My head snaps up.

Down the hall, Jax leans casually against the lockers, one hand still raised from the throw. His eyes gleam, sharp and unflinching.

“Think about it, Hart.” His voice is low, rough,

and way too steady. “I don’t waste my time on losers.”

The puck sits at my feet like a challenge.

And I hate how much I want to pick it up.